


Reboot

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [460]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Gen, canon-level violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-22 17:17:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11384775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: trcunning askedI've seen a few Steve Rogers meets Diana Price fics, but how would Steve Trevor and Natasha Romanov get along (spy vs spy, maybe)?





	1. Chapter 1

Steve had to remind himself it it wasn’t 1918 anymore.  

There was a lot to remind him: the height of the buildings around them, the feel of the clothes he’d been handed, even the car they were driving in, with its glowing controls and the _voice that was still talking._

“Why does it care so much that the door is ajar?”  He couldn’t stop the question slipping out.

In the driver’s seat, Natasha tapped light, confident fingers on the glass panel next to the steering wheel.  “Because it probably is. Focus, please.”

Right. Yes. Men shooting at them.  Some things never change.

Natasha pulled a gun out of nowhere and handed it to him as, above them, the pane of glass that was the roof slid back with a quiet hum.  “I assume shooting out the tyres may be just within your competencies?” she snarked sweetly.

Steve’s eyes narrowed, spotting her game.  But he took the gun from her, hefting the grip in his hand.  “Honey, who do you think invented that maneuver?” 

It took more than six shots; Steve was about to drop back down to reload when Natasha yelled, slapping the back of his legs.  “Don’t stop.”

Steve squeezed the trigger, expecting an empty _click_  – instead, the weapon kept shooting, and so Steve continued to count as he squeezed off round after round. At twelve, the first car careened off the road and slammed into a building.  At fifteen, the second’s tyres blew out with a bang.

Steve ducked back into the relative safety of the cab as their pursuers impotently fired after them as Natasha sped them away.

“How’d I do?” Steve asked as he settled back into the passenger seat, so much more comfortable than anything he’d ridden in before.  

Natasha bobbed her head from side to side.  “Ah, six out of ten for theft,” she teased back.  “Nice grab, terrible exit strategy.”  She glanced sideways at Steve’s unhappy frown.  “Remind me to teach you all about motion sensors when we’re done.”

Steve perked up with interest.  Ever since he’d woken up in that drab room, being watched by people behind really quite fancy gas masks, he’d been bored.

Well, a little blind terror.  But mostly bored, right up until Natasha had strolled in, handed him one of the staff uniforms, and asked him if he’d like a little adventure.

“We’re not done?” was all he said in reply.

Another sideways glance.  “No,” Natasha said, humour threading her voice.  “How good at you at conning people?”

He was no Sameer, but Sameer was another friend long-gone.  “I’m an artist,” he said, trying to tease another smile out of her.

He won half of one.  “Well, lucky for you, your new friend is a World War One history nerd.  I’m sure you’ll get along splendidly.”

Steve settled back against the upholstery, his thumb gently stroking the rough grip of his gun.  “Well then,” he replied once he’d swallowed past the lump in his throat.  “Drive on.”

Natasha’s sideways look was inscrutable this time, but he pressed the accelerator and they disappeared into the thick of the city.


	2. Chapter 2

They’re six states over when Nat finally calls time and pulls them into the parking lot of a cheap roadside motel.

Steve’s still wishing for a paper map; the folds and wrinkles an echo of the topography around them. He wants to feel in his hands how fast they’d traveled, how many miles had hummed away under the tyres of this sleek, futuristic car.

Nat’s already chatting to the guy at reception by the time Steve shoulders the sole bag and shuffles across the gravel lot. The future was a world without cash, Steve was beginning to realize, as Nat waves a square the size and shape of a business card over something that reminds Steve vaguely of a field radio box. Three beeps later, and Nat was taking another square from the bored man across the counter and shooing Steve out and down the row of identical doors.

Steve waits, watching as another wave of the new plastic square gets them through the door and into a room that was almost familiar in this neon world. “Is the whole world run on this plastic now?” he asks, breathing in the smell of dust and old fabric that oddly almost reminds him of home.

Nat chuckles like she’s just heard a joke. “Pretty much. Remind me to teach you about RFID and VISA.” She scopes the room, quick steps carrying her from doorway to bathroom to far window. “Only the really seedy places take cash without getting suspicious these days, and I figured we’d work down to that.”

Steve knows his smile is closer to a wince as he shucks the shoulder strap and tosses the heavy bag on the sole bed. “Thanks for being gentle,” he teases back without heat. The bed squeaks as he sits on the end. “Am I taking the floor?”

“Only if you snore.” The room goes dark as Nat closes the blinds with a snap of her wrist on the cord. The bag’s zipper is loud as Steve tries to parse her meaning, and the bed dips alarmingly as Nat sits next to him.

This piece of plastic is the size of a thick folder, like the ones his old mission briefings came in, but the same dark grey as their current car. It opens like a book to reveal typewriter-esque keys that had an alien glow behind them. “Steve Trevor,” she says as she turns the device towards him. Steve winces at the glowing screen, as bright as the cinema in the dim room. “Meet the internet. I’m sure you’ll get along famously.” 

Five seconds of instruction later, she was dumping the laptop on his lap – Steve had to laugh at the obviousness of it – and reaching behind her for a change of clothes. “Have fun,” she almost leers as she rises and heads for the bathroom.

Steve waits until the door clicks shut and the sound of running water is loud before he tentatively, index fingers stretched stiff, begins to tap out his first query.


	3. Chapter 3

Nat keeps shooting him side glances.

Steve fixes his eyes on the landscape flashing by outside his window, reading battered signs for old towns younger than he was now, his shoulders turned to discourage conversation.

It had become increasingly clear to him over the past few days that, while Nat knew all about him -- his service record,  his training, even the name of his old dog -- he knew next to nothing about her.  Only that she busted him out of the high security site they had him locked down in as easily as he’d run to the corner store for a stick of hard rock, run an op with the contents of her pockets, and then high tailed them both out of the city like she had nothing left to lose.

“You ever have a pet?”  It’s the first thing he’s said to her since they skirted around Ithaca, three hundred miles back up the road.

Another thing he’s learned about Nat is that she doesn’t blink.  “No pets,” she says, eyes on the road.  “Not unless you count us girls.”

At this point, lacking context for her comments is almost comforting.  “Right,” he drawls, turning back to the window.  “Good talk.”

The car is so preternaturally quiet he hears her soft sigh over the engine.  “I was raised in Russia.” Her pause was so weighted Steve made a note to take the laptop again tonight and do a search for the history of Russia. “In a program.”  Another pause, and Steve tries to wrap his mind around what Nat wasn’t saying.  “There’s this cat though.  Near my current apartment.  Stupid thing will do anything for an ear rub.”

She’s trying to sound gruff, but Steve smiles at the fondness lurking in her voice.  “Cats are like that,” he tries just for something to say.  It was good to know some things never changed.  “I had this buddy...” and Steve chuckled at the memory.  “Big tough guy.  You name a sport, he played it.  But he had this kitten, and it’d ride around in his coat pocket.”  His laugh had more than a sniff to it, and Steve leaned back into the window.  “Named it Spot.”

“Good name,” Natasha’s voice is quiet, giving him space.  The tyres hum over the blacktop as they speed past another exit. “You like sports?”

Steve’s shrug re-settles his usual cocky shroud back over his shoulders.  “Who doesn’t?”

He’s getting used now to screens everywhere, just as he’s getting used to the wallet full of plastic Nat had helped him craft three motels back.  The display cast a cool blue glow into the car as Nat confidently tapped out a route and set navigation.  “What’s in Canton?” he asks, studying the pattern of taps and swipes she uses.  He’s still not used to being so superfluous as a passenger, having no role but to watch her drive.

He’s already missing being useful, being involved.

“Something you might like.  Take us about an hour to get there.”

Steve settles back in and tries to enjoy the ride.

 * * *  

“Football went pro?” Steve asks an hour later as he shuts the car door behind him.  He has to tip his head right back to take in the looming sign.

“And how,” Nat teases as she comes around, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder.  “Come on.  If there’s one thing I learned about faking belonging in this country, its that you need to have an opinion on football.”

Steve thought he had opinions on football. But like everything else, the last century had turned football into something bigger and flashier and full of plastic loaded with money.  As they drift with the crowds around the exhibits, Steve has to work to not to be overwhelmed with the colours and lights, the endless touch screens and the noise.

“What happened to a leather ball in a back alley somewhere?” he couldn’t help mutter as he’s jostled by a group of teens engrossed on their phones.

“Hard to make a profit without a stadium.” Nat’s voice is dry, her smile sweet at the dirty look she receives from the man to Steve’s left.  “I’m Russian,” she adds, smiling at the scowl she gets in response.

Steve frowns as Nat takes his arm.  “What was that about?” he hisses as she steers him expertly through the throng.

“Remind me to explain communism to you.  Preferably with alcohol,” she adds, holding on tight as they push through the crowds pouring in.  Out the windows, Steve notes the huge bus idly in the lot before Nat yanks him onwards.

“Come on, let’s go buy you a team hoodie.”

Steve shoots her a stern glance.  “My team doesn’t exist any more.”

Nat’s laugh is wicked as they step into the large store attached to the foyer.  “Then pick one whose colours you like,” she says with a shrug.  “Louder the better.”

Steve’s hand freezes mid-way to reaching for a folded shirt.  “Why?” he asks suspiciously.

Nat’s eyelashes flutter.  “Because,” she murmurs low.  “You’re going to be causing a distraction out front in it, while I’m finding us a new ride out back.”  She winks as she starts to step backwards.  “Rendezvous at the park across the highway in twenty.”

And then she was gone.  Steve allows himself a second to reel before he shakes out a bright red hoodie and checks it for size.  The number on the tag has him gulping, but he heads for the counter with his most charming smile.  “No, I’ll wear it out,” he tells the sales clerk as she rings up his purchase.

The machine on the counter was similar to the one Nat had used at the gas station back in Philly.  Steve tries not to breathe out too loudly as it beeps once and flashes “Approved.”

Shrugging it on, Steve wanders back into the main foyer and eyes the security guards at the counter, the distance to the front door.

This he could do.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE’S STILL NO LOS ANGELES TEAM,” he roars, loud enough to make those nearest to him jump.

As the guards converge, Steve starts his mental clock running.

 


	4. Chapter 4

They fall into a pattern somewhere around Nashville.  Nat teaches Steve about RFID and wifi, about ATMs and RVs and a thousand other acronyms. Steve takes charge of charming AirBnB hosts and coffee shop matrons into not checking their id, into a free scone with Nat’s tea and his coffee, a thousand other points of interaction that haven’t changed much in a century.

After years of war and decades of nothing much at all, watching the miles tick by under the tyres of their latest ride felt something like a vacation.  By the way Nat was driving, one hand on the wheel, her other elbow rested on door sill, her glasses dark across her eyes, Steve suspected she felt the same.

And so the states passed, the landscape growing drier and flatter as they crossed country.

Nat hadn’t stated a destination, but even Steve noticed the way they stopped at cheaper motels, risked stealing newer models with better mileage.  “Vegas,” he noted.  He’d bought a fistful of maps three stops ago, and had been taking pleasure ever since in irritating Nat by tracking their progress the old fashioned way.  “Let’s go to Vegas.’

“Security nightmare.” The dark glasses didn’t look away from the road.  “Cameras everywhere.”

“But all that tasty, tasty cash, just there for the taking,” Steve leaned in to tempt her.

“Cameras,” she sing-songed back.

Steve cricked his neck, considering his angle. “And the great Natasha Romanov is scared of a few security goons?  What?  Russian can’t take a mob hitter?”  He  _tsked_  under his breath.  “What has the future become?”

That at least got him a languid sideways glance.  “It’s less the mob hitters and more the CIA databases.”  But Steve could tell by the slight curve of her lips she was almost hooked.

He leaned forward to reel his guppy in.  “So we go in, get the chips, get out.  Come on,” he drawled.  “Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

Nat stared at him for so long Steve was feeling the urge to grab the steering wheel.  Then Nat smirked and yanked, careening them across two lanes to the exit to Nevada.


End file.
